Chapter Text
Everything hurt.
Michael’s chest and lower body were on fire, its blaze striking pain stronger even than when he’d been trapped in that field hospital. That must be where he was. Making this all a nightmare; back in that hellscape of destruction and despondency.
His locked eyes and ringing ears did little to inform his surroundings, but he could faintly identify vague noises that approximated voices. Perhaps an older man and older woman? There had been older individuals in that field hospital. Women who had become desensitized to the spilled innards and pus-filled wounds of the soldiers. Men who had believed themselves to be in their prime, rushing to the field to meet fates far worse than a simple death.
Yet, this couldn’t be the field hospital. His frozen body lay on something far softer than the cot that was his home for 4 agonizing weeks. The dry heat was also nothing like the oppressive humidity in the Philippines. Wherever he lay was familiar to his subconscious.
His hearing was improving from a ringing to a dull hum, allowing him to start making out the voices. The older woman was speaking rapid Sicilian in a hushed voice, the slightest stammer betraying her. It took a moment to translate.
“It’s day five and still nothing. If he doesn’t wake soon, his father may need to know.”
The older man sighed softly. “No. The father has already lost one son. He does not need to worry about another.”
It was starting to come together. There was an explosion, a car bomb. People wanted to kill him. Clearly, it had failed, as he was still alive. Pain ricocheted through his body and to his brain. He was supposed to be in that car.
Apollonia. His north star, his anchor. She had been the one behind the wheel. And yet, he had survived. Maybe there was a chance she had, too.
He needed to find his wife. He needed to get up. He needed to open his eyes. Yet their weight was fighting every command of his mind. In his increasingly frantic attempts to awaken the body, he must have made noise, as the conversation quickly grew quiet.
Until finally, his eyes unlocked, and late afternoon light streamed in. The light was centralized to a window directly above him, bleaching the walls but keeping his bed mercifully in shadow. He was in the makeshift hospital of the rustic compound where he’d been living for the past 22 months. The older woman, Nurse Filomena, was perched in the doorway, withered hands clasped together in a silent prayer of gratitude.
Don Tommasino, the older man, had taken refuge from the sun in a wooden armchair a few meters from the bed. He had aged months in days, stress lines crisscrossing his naturally jovial face. Noticing Michael’s attention, Tommasino finally broke the silence.
“Michael, can we talk? Or do you want some rest?” His words were barely audible and carried a noticeable wariness, as if trying not to disturb a dying animal.
Michael turned his head slightly to lock eyes with the older Don. Desperation dragged him toward the question he was dreading.
“Apollonia?” His tongue was sand, and his voice the Dead Sea, but the meaning was not lost. Silence. He studied the Don’s face and body language in vain for an answer. In the end, it was Filomena’s whispered Hail Mary that ripped away any hope.
“I’m sorry.” Don Tommasino, for all his power, seemed truly at a loss for words. “She’s…” His voice broke.
No, Apollonia couldn’t be dead. She was going to her parents’ house to be safe, to have their child while Michael disappeared into hiding. They were supposed to grow old together, have years of memories together.
The memories of that day were clear now. Her excitement at being able to prove her driving skills. The way he had screamed in vain before she struck the ignition. How in seconds the Alfa Romeo had been reduced to nothing but a smoking frame. How each second had been an eternity of desperation before his consciousness faded.
Each passing thought added to the maelstrom of grief. A maelstrom he could not yet let himself feel. It was all pushed down into the deepest parts of himself until his mind and body appeared as blank slates. He fixed his glassy eyes upon Don Tommasino. “And Fabrizio?”
“He brought the car from the garage, correct?”
Michael gave a small nod.
“Calo died. We couldn’t find Fabrizio.” A pause to pick the correct words. “You have to realize, Michael, you’ve been unconscious for nearly a week.” Another pause. “You’ll be able to go home soon, now that they all think you're dead. You will rest up here and soon be gone to your family.”
Michael’s gaze stayed fixed. “Fabrizio.”
The meaning was understood. “We’ve had our people looking everywhere for him. They went to his family’s home, spoke to the entire village. The only thing we’ve found within the area was a lupara 2 kilometers north.”
Don Tommasino made a small motion to his left. Propped against the wall was a shotgun, seemingly identical to all the others shepherds wielded throughout Sicily. Michael forced himself to a sitting position. “I want to see it.”
Filomina glided over to the weapon and carefully set it on the bed. Michael took it into his aching hands, turning it over. A small American flag was carved into the grip, betraying its owner’s motives. It all fell into place. Fabrizio, the traitor, had killed his wife and unborn son in exchange for travel to America.
The grief was back, placing pressure on all corners of his mind. It took considerably more effort to shove it back down.
He needed to get out of this room, away from people, away from this reality. He looked up from the weapon and toward Tommasino. “I would like to go up to my room.”
Filomina’s lips tightened in displeasure. Tommasino looked similarly uncomfortable, but gave a small nod, eyes fixed to the ground.
Michael slowly inched himself off the bed, fighting the atrophy of a week's worth of disuse. Through sheer force of will, he minimized the shaking of his legs, finally propping himself to a standing position. He slowly secured the lupara to his back, its strap tearing into his raw shoulder. Once that was complete, he exited without another word. Filomina and Tommasino knew better than to follow.
The way to his room took far longer than expected. Each step was an exercise in pain management; each stair threatened to buckle his legs. He kept his face carefully blank, concealing the mental and physical torture threatening to consume him. The only change in expression came with the occasional nod to the patrolling soldiers. They gawked at him like a zoo exhibit or a living corpse. The strange guest who had been targeted by a car bomb and lived to enact a vendetta.
After five eternities, he finally made it to his and Apollonia's room. It was exactly as it had been left. He quickly tore off the lupara and moved, trancelike, to their small bed. He and Apollonia had spent hours here discussing everything and nothing. His stories of Americans had always made her eyes light with curiosity at the strange world across the Atlantic.
Memories of her permeated every centimeter of the room. Her keepsakes scattered on the dresser, her clothes folded into an attempt at organization. Even the air itself evoked her aroma of oranges and rose blossoms. It was too much. If he stayed another moment on the bed, he’d never move again.
In a last-ditch attempt to escape the cascading memories, Michael fled to the balcony, letting the dry Sicilian air punch his throat. His breaths came in gasps, each attempting to calm his unraveling mind. He grasped the railing, tightening his hands until his knuckles bleached white. There was something wet on his cheek. A tear, which quickly evaporated in the heat.
Involuntarily, he focused on the mosaiced courtyard below. Last year, he and Apollonia had their first dance there. They weren’t supposed to dance until their wedding, but neither was willing to wait that long. He’d prepared a picnic for them, a spread of cheeses, meats, and citrus that he’d personally acquired from wandering the hills or bartering with shopkeepers. Once dusk had fallen, he had finally felt bold enough to ask for a dance. They swayed the entire evening, two bodies harmonizing through a melody only they could hear.
The tears were streaming now, his brain still in denial of their existence. He was still transfixed on the courtyard, reminding him of how picturesque the last year had been. All these moments they’d shared, and how he’d give up his world to have just one more.
The future they’d spent days planning took form in Michael’s mind, and the courtyard shifted in his mind’s eye, warping into his father’s backyard. Apollonia was swinging their son, Antonio, each swing scattering giggles from the boy. Noticing Michael, the two waved before pointing at the rest of the family. Tom with his wife and children, Fredo with a woman who finally respected him. Sonny’s wife and kids sang a tarantella alongside Mamma. A very pregnant Connie leaned against Carlo, who was cradling their own young boy.
They were all so happy and free of distress. Glancing upward, Michael understood why. Sonny stood alongside their father at the opposite balcony, guardian angels protecting the family from harm. It was the perfect future.
All Michael needed to do for this future was jump from the balcony and join his wife and son. It would be so easy.
The temptation possessed him for a moment, and he felt his knuckles tighten further on the railing in protest, keeping him from falling over. He couldn’t jump. This vision was nothing but an ill-conceived fantasy. Sonny was dead, lost to a hail of bullets. There was no one in America to protect them. Even in a fantasy world where Sonny was alive, Michael and Apollonia wouldn’t grow old together, wouldn’t watch their son grow and experience life’s joys and heartaches. Michael couldn’t watch him find love, or even grief, because that opportunity had been taken from him.
All his opportunities had been taken from him.
His mind finally accepted the truth, and the dreamlike vision became a nightmare. Where his wife and son once stood was nothing but cinders and ash. The other family members began suffering similar fates. Assailants gunning down Tom as he attempted to defend their father in court. Carlo and Connie staring at their son’s corpse, bullets in his chest meant for them. Fredo attending their mother’s funeral, the only sane one left to pay respects.
It was too much. The last threads of restraint tore, and he let the flood of grief overwhelm his senses. Through the teary fog, he barely made out the opposite balcony, where Sonny’s ghost flickered, before finally disappearing, leaving Michael truly alone. Michael’s body broken, he collapsed onto the stone floor, lamenting the life he never had the opportunity to start.
He lay there, letting exhausted sobs turn to dry heaves and finally to a chasm of emptiness. There was nothing left but anguish and loneliness.
That dark desire crept back into his mind. He could end it all on his own terms before his assassins had another chance. He could see his family and brother on the other side today.
No. Killing himself would do nothing but leave Apollonia's unwilling sacrifice in vain. His would-be killer was unaware he was alive. He could still collect on the vendetta.
Once the vendetta was complete, he could help the rest of the family that needed him. Connie, Fredo, Tom, even his father. Apollonia wouldn’t want him to abandon them. They could still experience that dream he had once imagined.
That peace would be for them, not for him. Not anymore. He would have to become what Sonny and his father once were, the protectors of their peace. He would do what must be done, what he could not do for his wife and son. No matter what it took.
His resolve strengthened, Michael turned back to his room, slamming the balcony door and his ghosts behind him. He splashed water on his face, successfully destroying any lingering tear marks, before turning to the closet.
There, he shed the shepherd disguise that had become his identity for the best 21 months of his life. The warmth it had granted him slid off, releasing the nature he’d foolishly denied his entire life. He changed into the suit he had worn while courting Apollonia. Satisfied, he faced the mirror.
The man who murdered Sollozzo stared back.
The lupara was still where he left it, the weapon of a traitor that would be dealt with. Fabrizio would pay, as would anyone else who dared threaten him or his loved ones.
Any lingering grief was replaced with ice.
He strode his way back to the compound’s foyer, glancing past any soldiers along his path. There, Don Tommasino was in deep conversation with his underboss, a mousy-looking younger man. At Michael’s presence, the two flinched, gaping as if seeing a ghost. To Tommasino, Michael was the spitting image of his father.
Tommasino turned away momentarily to finish his command, his words holding a perceptible shake. The moment the command was finished, the mousy man fled. Tommasino turned back, trying to smile. It was not reciprocated. Michael leveled his intensity completely at the older man, and when he finally spoke, it was with the voice of the future Don.
“Tell my father to get me home. Tell him I wish to be his son.”